greenness, soundsystems and love

It’s been a great week for treehouses. I broke a story last week about Nick Weston’s Essex treehouse and every Tom, Dick and Harry from every newsroom in the South East wanted a piece of the Crusoesque action. I had a message full of gratitude from Nick and a promise of a dinner in the woods. Report back I shall. I’m so jealous of his life amongst the elements, surrounded by nature and with nothing but books and a fire for company… Green with envy? I’m glowing like the very incandescent  and oh so un-eco nugget of plutonium Bart Simpson catches as he rides past Burns’ factory.

Happy August! Tis the month of the Carnival. Coincidental etymology of the pleasure-inducing word: carnage + festival = carnival. I read a slightly odd reference to the wondrous NHC in ES mag this weekend. Something along the lines of “get down to Notting Hill for soca beats, shimmying bottoms and buckets of jerk chicken”. The first bit was made up – but “buckets”??? It’s not a KFC hootenanny, love. No, the chicken bursting from the blackened oil drums along Kilburn Road is served on high piles of dry rice and anyone who’s ever balanced a Red Stripe, a wobbly paper plate of jerk and their dwindling sobriety whilst surging through the sweaty, grinding masses knows, really knows that there are no buckets of chicken at Carnival. Prepare to suck bones, drain cans and get messy.

And finally. This is the last month of singledom for my lovely Ro. Only one month today until the knot is tied, double-knotted, triple blessed and left to tighten in the ever-changing rain, sun, snow, drought, storms, deep blue skies and shifting winds…

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